


Third Time's A Charm

by fennecfawkes



Series: First Things First [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Disgustingly Adorable Clint, Established Relationship, Firsts, Insecure Phil, M/M, Pre-Canon, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A side-quel to Tourniquets, Dry Cereal, and Sloppy First Kisses in which Phil uses his words. Not my characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time's A Charm

Phil’s been trying not to say it for days.

He can’t help it, not when Clint’s rooting for Hans Gruber or showing Phil how to properly frost a cupcake or telling Phil about his life before SHIELD. Now, after two dates—Clint won’t count Scotland or Christmas, because they were work and vacation, and apparently that’s not the same as a proper date—Phil knows Clint’s favorites (color, movie, animal, foster placement, circus act, and, perhaps most memorably, injury story) and hidden talents (and of course Phil blushes when he finds out Clint can tie and untie a cherry stem with his tongue, though he’s familiar with that particular part of Clint’s anatomy by now) and even some circus stories. (He also knows what Clint’s like in bed. That’s probably worth noting.) They haven’t gotten to the mercenary part yet, but Phil gets the feeling that’s OK with both of them, and likely to remain that way. And there’s next to nothing Phil doesn’t like, even love, about Clint. Sure, he can be a bit snippy when he’s tired, and he doesn’t like working with handlers who aren’t Phil, and he tends to fidget when he’s bored—and he bores easily—but these are such minor quibbles. It’s not like Clint’s clipping his toenails in the bed (which he’s only been in twice, anyway) or suffering from distasteful aesthetic sensibilities. Instead, he’s ... well, he’s Clint. And Phil’s pretty sure—OK, 100 percent certain—he loves that.

But even though both his sister and Sharon have said that Clint clearly loves him, Phil has no earthly idea how Clint would react if he heard how Phil felt. It’s possible he’d clam up or apologize for not being able to say it back or even leave, and all three possibilities are just this side of horrifying for Phil. So he’s been keeping his mouth shut, even as Clint’s telling him about the antique jewelry shop where he found Phil’s tie pin and bringing him a burrito from his favorite Mexican joint when he forgets to eat lunch and reenacting Sitwell’s meltdown in the cafeteria when a junior agent spilled coffee on his shirt. Their third date’s tonight, and Phil’s hoping this relationship lasts a lot longer than three dates, so a code of silence when it comes to the word “love” is one he aims to keep.

“Ready?” Phil looks up. Clint was the first to tell him about what Nick’s now referring to as Tropical Storm Sitwell, but now he’s gotten a series of six emails about it since the junior agent attempted to remove herself from her contract with SHIELD immediately after leaving the cafeteria. Suddenly, the latest email from Maria’s a lot less interesting, possibly because Clint’s t-shirt is pretty tight, and his arms are crossed over his chest. Phil knows Clint’s well aware how that makes his arms look. He swallows hard and closes his laptop. Tropical Storm Sitwell can wait.

“Yeah.” Phil stands and stretches before walking around his desk and kissing Clint on the cheek, not bothering to check if anyone’s behind Clint. Whatever. He’s a senior agent who’s been suppressing the words “I love you” for days. He deserves a break once in a while. “Ready for date number three?”

Clint drapes Phil’s coat over his shoulders and Phil tugs it on fully. Clint’s still wearing Phil’s dad’s coat, having informed Phil two days before that he wouldn’t be replacing it until it was more hole than coat, and “judging from the fine workmanship, sir, that’s never going to happen.” They’d been on lunch with Sharon and Pollack (who’s still around, and Clint can’t stop mocking Sharon for that, but he’s been polite enough not to when Pollack is actually present), and Sharon had giggled incessantly and Phil had threatened to break up with Clint, but Clint batted his eyelashes and squeezed his hand, and Phil dismissed the idea out of hand.

“Depends,” says Clint. “You cooking again?”

“I hope so,” Phil says. “I have a pot roast and asparagus and salad and a pan of brownies. Sorry, I know you’re the one who bakes.”

“I’ll try not to be too bothered. What are we watching?”

“You still haven’t seen _Some Like It Hot_ , right?” Clint shakes his head. “Oh, it’s probably my favorite screwball comedy. I think you’ll like it. And Tony Curtis is worth looking at.”

“Sometimes you sound like...” Clint shakes his head again and laces his fingers through Phil’s. “I don’t know. You sound like a TV dad or something.”

“Ouch.”

“No, no, I kind of love it, though,” says Clint. “Because other times you sound like the coolest guy in the world. And I get to have both.” He leans against Phil slightly. “I’m pretty much the luckiest.”

“What does that make me, then?” Phil steps out onto the curb outside HQ and raises his hand. A taxi appears within a matter of seconds.

“Well, for one, the taxi-hailing skill? Very sexy,” Clint says as he ducks into the cab, pulling Phil behind him. “And I don’t know what it makes you. Am I more TV dad or coolest guy around? And are either of those something you’re into?”

“More coolest guy, certainly. But there’s definitely an undercurrent of goofball there.”

“And you’re into that sort of thing?”

“So into it,” says Phil, kissing Clint on the side of the head. The cabbie’s probably not paying attention, anyway. “Also, you’re someone who cries when Hans Gruber dies at the end of _Die Hard_.”

“You were never supposed to repeat that in front of another person!”

Phil waves his hand. “You shouldn’t be ashamed. It’s good to be in touch with your emotions.”

“Not when your emotions include sympathizing with the bad guy,” says Clint.

“Hey, Gruber makes some valid points,” says Phil. “The whole of his crime is based on sound philosophy. It just involves more murder than it probably should.”

“Probably.” Clint leans into Phil. “I’m going to close my eyes and you’re not going to make fun of me for napping, OK?”

“OK,” says Phil, wrapping his arm around Clint’s shoulder and waiting out the 20 minutes it takes to get to his place. Clint’s still living in the SHIELD dorms, though Phil expects that’ll change in time. He worries sometimes about the ease with which he thinks about his and Clint’s future, but then he looks at Clint’s face, the softness of his expression in sleep, and he kind of forgets to worry. Soon, he’s nudging Clint awake and Clint’s half-watching something dreadful ( _COPS_ , maybe?) on his couch while Phil cooks dinner and updates Clint on the Sitwell situation.

This, Phil thinks not for the first time, is probably what kept his and Maria’s relationship going as long as it did. They certainly weren’t in love, but they liked each other enough, and it was just such a relief to talk about work without having to keep things classified. At least, not many things. Phil knows he can’t tell Clint everything, but this particular instance is rather harmless. It’s also getting less funny as it continues, and Clint’s cringing over it.

“I’m not clumsy,” he says. “Obviously. If I was, I don’t think I could be, you know, a sniper. But I know the people doing stuff like Sara does—did—don’t have to be so great on their feet all the time.”

“You know her?”

“Yeah, we were training at the same time,” says Clint. “I helped her a bit with firearms. Did you know that you have to do firearms training even if you’re going to be on full-time desk duty? It’s brutal. I didn’t help a lot of the others, but if they asked, I gave them a hand.”

“That was pretty thoughtful of you,” Phil says. “The asparagus is nearly ready. Do you want to eat that now? Or just wait till the pot roast is done?”

“I’m pretty hungry right now.” Clint turns off the TV and rises from the couch, walking over to Phil and slipping his arms around Phil’s waist from behind. He kisses Phil underneath his ear before nipping at the lobe. Phil kind of loves that. Phil might think about that when Clint’s not around sometimes, how Clint’s sought out all Phil’s most sensitive spots and tends to lavish them with attention. Phil’s had good relationships, even great ones, before, but never has he felt so cared for, so valued. (And so turned on. But it’s Clint. That kind of comes with the territory.) That’s why, instead of teasing Clint by saying he’s ruining the asparagus, he opens his mouth and says, “I love you.”

Phil’s fear is that Clint will drop his arms and run as fast as he can out of the apartment. Instead, Clint’s arms tighten around his waist, and he nudges Phil’s neck with his nose—nuzzling, that’s a thing Phil never realized he was on board with till a couple weeks ago—till Phil turns his head and they kiss. It’s messy. The best ones usually are, Phil’s finding. The angle’s all wrong and if they stay like this, Phil’s going to get a horrible crick in his neck. So he turns around.

“If we keep doing this,” Phil says several minutes later, when there’s been nothing but more kissing and some groping, and not even tasteful groping, despite the bulk of their dinner still being in the oven, “this pot roast is going to be inedible.”

Clint takes one step away, arms still looped loosely around Phil’s waist. “I... OK, look, it’s kind of hard for me, it always has been, since I was a kid, but I do feel the same way, alright? Love. That—that’s it. I love you. I think I have for a while. But I kind of thought you would say it, and that would help.” Clint laughs a little. “Kind of thought you would say it at your parents’, actually. And then I’d want to have sex with you, like, immediately. So maybe it’s good that you didn’t.”

“Probably,” says Phil. “Though I’m not sure I would have been entirely opposed.”

“How can you sound like that when we’ve just had this giant emotional revelation?” Clint asks. He’s smiling as widely as Phil’s ever seen. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. Right now, everything might be beautiful, but Phil can’t really see anything other than Clint.

“Is it really a revelation if we were both already so sure of it?”

“But not sure of each other.” Clint cocks his head to the side. “Which is ridiculous, really.”

“Agreed,” says Phil. “Let’s put this on pause for a bit, OK? Eat some asparagus and salad and I’ll make sure to get that roast out on time?”

“Yes, dear,” Clint says, still smiling, so the joking quality of the endearment’s stripped away. He steps away from Phil toward the fridge to retrieve the salad and seems to be having trouble letting go of one of Phil’s hands.

“Hey,” says Phil softly. “I’m still going to be here, OK?”

“I know. We’re in your kitchen.”

“You know what I mean, Clint.”

“I know.” Clint’s smile goes from blinding to soft, gentle, and satisfied. “I will be, too.”

“I know,” says Phil, turning back to the stove with an unabashedly goofy smile on his face.


End file.
